


Reunion Protocols

by inconocible



Series: Colleen Shepard [3]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mass Effect 3, Masturbation, Memories of past sex, No Actual Character Death, Post-Mass Effect 2: Arrival, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesus, Colleen, she realized with a jolt. He’s probably dead, there’s an 80 percent chance he’s dead, and so is everyone else if you can’t get your head on straight and focus. She tried to tell herself these things, practiced repeating them in her mind, and yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion Protocols

For two days, an undercurrent of urgency and fear pulled Shepard’s thoughts along.  
  
After the adrenaline let-down from Mars finally set in, letting her think normally again, her primary thoughts were maybe a little angrier than she usually let them be, steeped in six months of inaction and frustration. Earth, destruction, leaving Anderson, the clusterfuck of Mars and Ashley and that thing in the AI core, death, politics, ‘fuck all of this,’ and, ‘I told them so’ — but, secondary to those things, a very small, sensitive, Colleen thought swam upstream through her veins, swirling through her cool, if not calm, collected Commander Shepard thoughts: ‘not you, too, not you.’

She tried not to be sentimental. She tried not to dwell. She tried to send a quick message, which bounced back. The second and third messages also came back as undeliverable.   
  
On the Normandy, late in the evening cycle, Shepard gnawed absentmindedly at her fingernails while responding to the messages flooding her inbox. She caught up on extranet news she’d missed over the past six months, and on reports coming in from the various worlds. Khar’Shan, Earth, Palaven. Nothing looked optimistic. Ashley lay bruised and battered in the sick bay; Liara cloistered herself with her data work, occasionally pinging Shepard with new information; Edi and Joker were double-timing to keep the rest of the ship running ever-faster toward the Citadel. James had brewed a pot of fresh coffee and grudgingly offered her a cup several hours earlier, but would barely speak to her, and had disappeared below decks soon after.  
  
Shepard leaned her elbows on her desk in the loft and cupped her chin in her hands, staring at the notification that her most recent message had also bounced. She wondered when she should give up on trying to send them. “Fuck,” she said aloud.   
  
It had been easy to shove the worry down in the company of the rest of the crew. But here, with the lights half-off in the loft, it was getting to hard to think of anything but.  
  
She sat up straighter, pushed her chair away the desk, tilted her head all the way back, so that her amp was against her upper back. She clenched her fists, clenched her jaw, squeezed her eyes shut, held her breath. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. But when she let the breath go, when she opened her eyes, when she relaxed her body, the tension lingered.  
  
"Where are you, you bastard?" she whispered into the empty room, staring for several seconds at first her neatly made bed, then at the most recently returned message, notification still blinking on the terminal.   
  
Why was she letting this affect her so intensely? What was one turian against the massacre of millions? She closed the bounced message and went back to work.  
  
But after a couple of minutes, she conceded that she couldn’t focus on the screen, glancing again at the bed, rolling her constantly-aching right shoulder, remembering. How it felt to have him curled lazily and companionably around her back, his impossibly gentle touch against her bare skin, working the knots out of the old shoulder injury. She smiled, recalling how he’d play with the tips of her hair as they lay in bed, rehashing a mission or watching a vid on one of their ‘tools. Soon, she thought, pressing her fingertips into her shoulder. Everything will get back to normal just as soon as he’s back on board —  
  
Jesus, Colleen, she realized with a jolt. He’s probably dead, there’s an 80 percent chance he’s dead, and so is everyone else if you can’t get your head on straight and focus. She tried to tell herself these things, practiced repeating them in her mind, and yet.  
  
She couldn’t concentrate on reading any more. She decided to just try to sleep. They’d be at the Citadel in less than eight hours. She needed to be functional.  
  
She lowered the lights, toed off her boots, peeled off her socks, shrugged out of her pants and hoodie and shirt and bra, threw them on the couch, slid under the covers, and settled on her back, staring at the stars whizzing by overhead. But the bed felt too cold and too wide after six months of a twin-sized bunk back in Vancouver, and she didn’t want to sleep in the middle, she wanted to sleep on  _her_  side, but that would mean  _his_  side would be empty, and —  
  
She rolled onto her side, thinking maybe this was just a bad dream, maybe if she turned over he’d be where she expected to find him, nose-to-nose with her. It took nearly no imagination at all to still see the impression he would be leaving in the pillow, to still hear the soft sound of his breath as he would be dozing next to her.  
  
No. No, in reality, it was highly likely that he was dead. It was sheer luck that she wasn’t.  
  
Maybe — maybe if she said it out loud. Maybe then she’d believe it, maybe it would be a little more okay, maybe it would become more real in her mind, maybe she’d let go of the gnawing worry. Maybe she could get it out of her system, move on.  
  
"He’s dead," she said. She took a shaky breath, considering the statistics in the reports she’d been looking over earlier, considering the statistical probability that no turian would occupy the other side of her bed again.  
  
"He’s dead," she said again. She felt a lump blocking her throat. She swallowed. "Garrus Vakarian, statistically, is a dead man." Tears were brimming in her eyes, and she ground the heels of her hands hard into them until stars burst behind her eyelids. It didn’t help. Her eyes brimmed until they overflowed behind her palms and her mind was racing, racing, and she couldn’t stop thinking:  
  
It was stupid, stupid, stupid. She couldn’t stop thinking.  
  
She couldn’t stop thinking of: The last time they’d had sex in this bed.  
  
Stupid.  
  
Couldn’t stop thinking of the soft, sure way he’d embraced her the moment Hackett debarked and they’d slipped away to be alone in the loft, the way he’d cupped the back of her head in his big palm, the way he’d told her in that self-assured tone of his that they’d figure it out, that it wouldn’t take long for the Alliance and the Hegemony to come around, that he’d make sure the Hierarchy would be on her side and ready for the reaper threat when they did. He’d read her report, he thought she’d done the right thing, he believed her. She didn’t care. She knew she’d done what she could, but she didn’t think she’d ever consider her choices the right ones. That night was about the way she’d blown him off, which she never did, she never blew him off, she always treated him as an equal partner, because he was. But that night, that night was about the way she told him she didn’t want to hear any promises, she just wanted him to shut up and fuck her as if she were facing the death penalty she probably deserved for killing an entire fucking planet of people, to fuck her as if it were the last time, because maybe it was. The way he’d seemed more than a little uneasy about it, but, god, he did what she asked. The way he’d pressed his forehead against hers, asking her, are you sure? Are you sure this is what you want? This isn’t like you, Shepard. I don’t want to hurt you more than you already are. The way he’d run the tip of his talon over the shell of her ear, tilting his mouth plates down to hers for a kiss and the way she’d shuddered at his touch and had just felt so damn desperate and guilty and like the weight of the galaxy was spiraling down onto her and she had said yes, yes, I’m sure, already undoing the clasps of his shirt, not caring. I don’t deserve your kindness right now, Garrus. I just need you here with me. I don’t want to feel anything right now but you. But this. The way he’d held her so damn close the whole time anyway, managed a heartbreaking sweetness anyway, showing her what almost seemed like an extra measure of respect and tenderness even while she was on all fours on the bed and he was gripping her hips hard enough to leave a mark, slamming into her from behind, not the way they usually did it, but doing it because she’d asked him to, because she’d kissed him furiously and desperately and presented herself to him and begged him not to go easy on her. The way he’d leaned in so close and gentle anyway that she wanted to curl up and disappear into his slim ribcage, hide away in the depth of his cowl. The way his breath had skated over her neck and she’d felt hyper-aware of how every inch of his alien body felt right on hers, fit perfectly against hers, inside and out, the way he’d whispered in time with the rhythm of their skin, Shepard, this is not the end, we’ll figure it out, Shepard, nothing can take me from you, Shepard, the way she’d finally, blessedly, lost all awareness of life outside this singular, perfect moment, overwhelmed by Garrus leaning his weight heavy and solid against her back, filling her completely, one finger slipping over her clit, his other hand anchored against hers on the bed, his three intertwined with her five, gripping onto one another like a lifeline, the near keen in his deep subvocals, saying, Shepard, Shepard, the way she was so close and so close and so close and he said you’re beautiful and he said I’m close and please she begged please and he braced his forehead in the sensitive spot between her neck and her jaw biting down but not hard enough to leave a mark and he was groaning Shepard oh and tensing inside her and coming and she was trembling around him and under him and so close so close so close and, ah, ah, ah, Garrus —— !  
  
She was crying now in earnest, something she rarely did, something that embarrassed her even if no one were there to see it, thinking of this. Thinking maybe she shouldn’t have phrased it the way she did. As if it were the last time.   
  
That night, too, she’d cried. Her world was black behind her eyelids, she was trembling, she was floating down along the come-down, and everything outside that moment, outside that room, had hit her again. The deaths. The reapers.  
  
"Hold me," she’d managed, through a shuddering breath, trying to hide her face, trying to pull herself together, riding a confusing wave of elation and beauty and hopelessness and guilt. Horrified that he’d be turned off. It was still kind of a new thing, after all. At least, the sex part of it was.  
  
But he’d rolled off with a whisper, gathered her into his chest, not judged her. With only a few hours until docking at Arcturus, they’d dozed, and when she’d woken him with an hour to go and pulled him sleepily but desperately to her, he’d moved slowly, sweetly, steadily stroking her to several good orgasms, holding her securely against him as she shook, before nudging her knees over his shoulders, sliding in, facing her, like they both liked, moving in and out of her in at a reassuring pace, so deep, so deep, neither of them lasting long. She came first, that time, clinging to his shoulders, her head thrown back in a wordless cry, his mouth at her breast, and he wasn’t far behind, pressing his forehead to hers, growling with pleasure in the back of his throat.  
  
"Ah," he’d breathed, puffing with exertion, coming down. "Ah, Shepard. So good." They’d lingered in the afterglow as long as they could manage, him still inside her, foreheads still touching. At length, he asked, "Shepard?"  
  
"What."  
  
He’d reached up, tracing the outline of her jaw, of her cheekbone, of her forehead, the tip of his talon skittering along the line of her brow and into her hairline. His mandibles fluttered nervously. For the first time, for the only time, so far, he’d said, “I — Shepard, I love you.”  
  
Now, now, thinking of it was eating away at her.  
  
She’d dropped him and the entire crew at the outbound spaceport side of Arcturus the next morning with complete immunity and had strutted back onto the empty Normandy in ceremonial handcuffs, flanked by armed MPs, vid being streamed to Khar’Shan to prove a point to the Hegemony. Had it been enough? She didn’t know. Didn’t think she’d ever know.  
  
She couldn’t help thinking about the things that had gone unsaid between them during last time they’d talked, the quick, illicit, midnight QEC call from Palaven to Vancouver, his reassurance that the Hierarchy would be ready, that he’d gotten them to listen, that they were in the midst of a war summit big enough that representatives from the Alliance and other races had been persuaded to attend, that he’d be waiting for her. No real chance to say much of anything else personal, Vega listening over the comm on her side and Anderson on the Palaven side, monitoring the short minutes until someone would notice the unauthorized call.  
  
But in the end, they hadn’t been ready, had they? No one was ready. Being ready for the reapers was not a thing that one turian, or even the entire Hierarchy, could make realistic promises about.  
  
She was crying still, not yet spent, but she was also frustratingly turned on, still thinking of the last night she’d spent with him, the excellent sex, the terrible feeling that she was losing the most meaningful, healthy relationship she’d managed to have in years, the way he’d lingered on Arcturus, watching her until the last possible moment.  
  
She couldn’t stop thinking about him, where are you, replaying every moment like a damn biotiball highlight reel, all the way back to that club on the Citadel where it all ostensibly started, when she was still alive for the first time. They were younger, lighter, and it had but hadn’t been a big deal, kissing Garrus in that club — because the mission was over and she wasn’t his commander anymore and he’d cheekily proposed that they go out to “relieve some post-mission stress” over drinks, and then there they were in that club, having drinks as equals, the equal she’d always regarded him as, the equal he’d always regarded her as, and she’d wanted to kiss him, so she did.  
  
She was uncomfortable. She shifted her hips in bed, seeking relief, not finding it.  
  
She couldn’t stop thinking about the way she trusted him to be at her right shoulder during a firefight, about his sound judgment, about the way she’d never felt any obligation to posture or put on a fake face or pull rank on him. About sitting up late swapping stories over drinks during the Collector mission and trying to find a way to laugh, even though the mission was grave and she’d been dead and he’d lost those he’d loved — laughing with him anyway about stupid, inconsequential shit, laughing for the sake of not going crazy, meeting every night to drink and mostly to talk and to laugh, first in the lounge, each evening inching closer, then finally in her loft, tentatively bridging the space until there was none, recalling the kiss in that club two years and a lifetime ago, and going for it, and. Everything after that.  
  
Her tears had stopped but she couldn’t let the images go, couldn’t think of anything but his body — where it might be now, what it was capable of then, how he could be so fierce and deadly at times and so restrained and loving at others.  
  
She couldn’t stop thinking about his body, and it felt wrong and it felt dirty — he’s dead, she reminded herself, Jesus Christ — but she was so bothered and aroused and needing him that she did it anyway: She slipped her hand into her underwear, unsurprised but simultaneously a little disgusted with herself to find herself already wet from her vivid memories. She circled her finger around her clit, closing her eyes tightly and thinking of his hands ghosting over her. Almost before she knew it, she had fallen into a good rhythm, was breathing hard and almost there, almost there, just not quite. She ran her other hand behind her neck and around the sensitive curve of her ear and over her breast, pinching her nipple too hard, rocking her hips into her own fingers, feeling her toes begin to curl and her inner muscles begin to faintly flutter. “Garrus,” she softly moaned, begging, anything, anything for it to be his hand there and not hers. As she thought of his face, of the particular expression he wore during sex, of the way he was able to make her feel when it was his finger working her instead — good and safe and entirely adored — her chin pressed up against his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, the intensity of the memory caused her orgasm to grab her without warning, throwing her over the edge as she cried out, leaving her shuddering and shaking but not feeling any better.   
  
She drifted into uneasy sleep, the worry not soothed, not even after all that. The need not sated, but, to her dismay, more urgent. I just want to see a body, she thought vaguely, just before she fell asleep. She knew, the moment she thought it, that it was a stupid thought, that there was likely no body — that he was likely either ash or a reaper abomination — but she couldn’t stop thinking: I just want to see his body. I just want to know something for sure.  
  
—  
  
On the Citadel the next morning, it was the same. She was distracted. She was on Spectre business, on Alliance business, on the business of keeping people alive, and she was both mad at herself for not doing enough about the worry distracting her, and mad at herself for letting it distract her in the first place.  
  
She guiltily let her eyes linger a nanosecond longer than they normally would have on the turians she passed as she walked through the Presidium, still wondering. Still searching. Still scanning faces in the crowds, despite the fact that she knew it would be fruitless: If he were in Citadel space, he’d have had working communications. The messages wouldn’t’ve bounced.  
  
Still she looked.

Is it you? Is it you? Is it you?  
  
—  
  
Shepard wasn’t sure if she was relieved or sick that the Normandy was on course to Palaven. It had been hard for her to speak with Sparatus, not just because of the attitude of the other council members. If Sparatus had lost contact with the damn Primarch of Palaven — well.   
  
Rationally, she knew comms were sketchy in much of reaper-occupied space, but it still didn’t help.  
  
She found herself, again, like the previous evening, exhausted and wired and running out of time to catch any sleep before the Normandy would arrive at its next destination. After departing the Citadel, she’d concentrated on ensuring the Normandy was up to specs for battle engagement and on checking in the crew, personally introducing herself to everyone new and chatting briefly with those she knew.  
  
James was still icy. She knew he was pissed about leaving Earth, but she suspected — had suspected, for the past six months — that there was something else there that he wanted to talk about, but couldn’t. Now was not the time. Maybe after picking up the Primarch, after setting the galaxy back on the offensive, then they could talk.  
  
Maybe after she was able to find out when, and where, and how, Garrus had died, she would be a little more free, a little better able to concentrate on the worries of others, a little more open to helping her crew carry their burdens. The Primarch would know, wouldn’t he? The Primarch would have to know, if Garrus truly had been as involved in the war summit two months ago as Anderson had said he was.  
  
Shepard mechanically brushed her teeth, examining the dark circles under her eyes as she did so. She made a mental note to thank Traynor for stocking the ship with fresh toothbrushes and toothpaste — as eccentric of a supply request as it had seemed, it was good for both hygiene and morale, and who knew when they might get toothpaste imported from Earth again. She crossed the loft, stripping her clothes off as she went. She propped her pillows up against the headboard of the bed, sitting up under the covers, looking over a supply list and a report on ship-wide combat readiness. She wasn’t sure when she’d be able to fall asleep, but she thought she should at least try to rest.  
  
The dream unsettled her. It wasn’t unusual for her to experience nightmares, but usually they were all the same: Her O2 line was busted, she was dying, she was panicking, she was freezing to death in the cold void of space as she watched the Normandy burn to the surface of Alchera around her. This dream, though, was strange: unfamiliar, but with vaguely familiar elements. The woods, the child, the mist, the cryptic messages. None of it made sense. She woke up breathing hard, datapad fallen onto the floor, a light sheen of sweat on her forehead.  
  
She swung her feet to the floor, leaning her elbows on her knees, cradling her forehead in her hands. She craved Garrus’ presence then, craved his touch, the way he’d probably lean over, massage her shoulders, tell her it was just a dream.  
  
Hell, she was more alone now than she had been in months, without James in the next room over. Even he sometimes woke when she had a nightmare, helping her get over the panic of waking up searching for the busted O2 line on her hardsuit. Now, there was no one but herself. Now, she needed to be Commander Shepard, to focus.  
  
She glanced at her ‘tool. Only four hours until contact with Palaven. She decided it wasn’t worth it to go back to sleep, instead getting up and launching herself at the shower, then at the mess downstairs for coffee.  
  
"You’re on my team today, Vega," she said as the marine crossed into the kitchen space. He poured himself a mug of coffee and grabbed an MRE from the box marked "breakfast," nodded at her, but didn’t say anything.  
  
"Lieutenant." It came out a little more harshly than she’d meant to. He stopped in his tracks and turned, cocking his head to the side. "You got a problem with me?" she said.  
  
He opened his mouth as if about to speak, then paused, shook his head. “Not quite the right time, Lola,” he said.   
  
"Then get it together, marine," Shepard answered, annoyed. If he didn’t feel like sharing, the least he could do was pull the stick out of his ass.  
  
"Yes, ma’am," Vega said, turning to go.   
  
It struck her then that maybe she, also, would do well to pull the stick out of her ass. That maybe Vega had something, someone, on his mind, just like she did. She thought she knew him pretty well from spending virtually every moment of the past six months with him, but, she reminded herself, you never truly know.  
  
"James," she said to his retreating back, more softly.  
  
"Yeah, Lola?" He turned.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
He ran a hand over his closely-cropped hair. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it before the mission. You can count on me.” The elevator doors opened.  
  
"Okay," Shepard said. "Three hours."  
  
"Got it," he called back from inside the elevator.  
  
Three hours, she hoped, until she could figure out the answer to the puzzle breaking her heart into small pieces, distracting her away from the war. Three hours until she could begin to figure out what had happened to Garrus.  
  
—  
  
Shepard’s stomach churned as the shuttle descended through the war zone.  
  
"Oh, no," Liara exclaimed. "No. Palaven."  
  
Shepard had known that morning that she likely wouldn’t be able to stomach food, even though she also knew she’d likely be pushing her biotics if it came to battle, which now looked increasingly likely. So, like a good biotic, she’d chugged a protein shake with her coffee and shoved a Ranger bar into a pocket of her hardsuit for later, but hadn’t touched the rest of her MRE. Now she was regretting the coffee, and even the shake. The more she looked at the vid screen showing the situation in turian space, the more she looked at Liara’s sad expression, the sicker she felt.  
  
Shepard appreciated Liara’s empathy, her friendship. Would probably need it later, but. Later. Not now.   
  
"We have an old friend there," Shepard said to James. It was bullshit, and they both knew it, but she wanted to try to keep up appearances about the illicit QEC call back on Vancouver. No one was supposed to know. Although, Shepard pondered, if anyone outside herself, James, Garrus and Anderson knew, it was probably Liara.  
  
James looked uncomfortable. He furrowed his eyebrows, glancing between Liara and Shepard.  
  
Shepard could feel a lump forming in her throat.  
  
"Holy hell," James said. "They’re getting decimated." He frowned, locking eyes with her. Shepard thought briefly that she’d also need James’s empathy, or to go a good, hard round or six in the boxing ring with him, or to talk him into sharing some of the mescal she heard he and Cortez had picked up on the Citadel. Or all of the above.  
  
She’d need her friends to help her rip up the choking, toxic weed of grief that had planted it seed in the pit of her stomach two days ago and was now growing at an alarming rate, threatening to smother her.  
  
Yeah, she’d need them. But not now. Now she needed to focus. Focus on the stats. Focus on the mission.  
  
"Strongest military in the galaxy, and reapers are obliterating it," Shepard ground out.  
  
"Was it like this on Earth?" Liara asked.  
  
"Yes," Shepard breathed.  
  
"Shepard," Liara said, giving her a pointed look, undoubtedly already thinking of the after, of the what happens next, of the mourning. "I’m so sorry."  
  
She should’ve said “thank you,” should’ve accepted Liara’s help. Instead, she was struggling to keep her shit together. Focus, Colleen.   
  
So she grit her teeth and said, “yeah,” strangely thankful when Cortez announced that the LZ was swarmed with enemies. Here, here was something she could focus on. Here was something she could fight, something she could do something about.  
  
"James, open that hatch."  
  
—  
  
She was winded and getting a twinge of headache where she’d overexerted her biotics, and General Corinthus was beginning to frustrate her. She knew he was likely just barely clinging to his command, but she need answers. She needed the Primarch.  
  
"What have you got?" she asked.  
  
"As your partner said, succession is simple," Corinthus said. "But right now, the Hierarchy’s in chaos. So many dead or MIA."  
  
Shepard fought the urge to demand a casualty list. “I need someone,” she said. “I don’t care who, as long as they can get us the turian resources we need.”  
  
Even Garrus, she thought. Even someone at his rank in the Hierarchy would be fine, as long as I could work well with them. Someone who would cooperate.  
  
She thought her ears were playing tricks on her when she heard his voice on the other side of the command center saying, “I’m on it, Shepard.”  
  
Couldn’t be.  
  
"We’ll find you the Primarch," he said, coming up the stairs and rounding the corner.  
  
"Garrus," Shepard exclaimed, not believing what she was seeing.  
  
"Vakarian, sir. I didn’t see you arrive," Corinthus was saying. Shepard’s head was reeling. For the second time of the day, her stomach churned. She was afraid to move, afraid she would lose her footing, would fall to her knees — out of grief or joy, she wasn’t sure.  
  
Shepard nearly missed the easy way he said, “at ease, General,” but she didn’t miss the way he hyper-focused on her, barely giving the general a passing glance. She didn’t miss the flick of his mandibles, the quirk of a smile on his face. She didn’t miss the way his subvocals wavered, betraying the joy and the surprise that he was trying to wrestle into submission.  
  
She’d been so prepared for critical wounds, or for a corpse, or for an empty casket and a heroic story. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with him like this: Whole, swaggering a little, clearly in a vital leadership role, maybe even enjoying, a bit, the grim task of killing the reaper beasts.  
  
"You’re alive," Shepard said stupidly. Surreal, it was surreal. She didn’t know what to do. She needed to touch him. She needed to feel him, solid and warm, under her hands. She needed to be positive this was real.  
  
She could have kissed him right there, when he reached out, clasped her hand in both of his, squeezed, and leaned in, that  _look_  that she most often saw in bed, or when he was plotting a way to get her there, flitting across his face before he winked at her and schooled his features. She clung to what shreds of military discipline were left in her mind, restrained herself.  
  
"I’m hard to kill," he was saying. "You know that."  
  
She thought of so much blood on the floor on Omega. Thought, yeah, he’s right. He’s always right. Bastard wasn’t dead, no matter the odds.  
  
She couldn’t keep the ghost of a laugh, the silhouette of joy, out of her voice. “Good to see you again,” she managed. “I thought you’d be on Palaven.” There was an eighty percent chance that you were dead.  
  
As the discussion on Victus continued, Shepard tried to keep herself from openly staring at Garrus’s face, but it was hard. He looked — well, good. Better, maybe, than she did. Like he was finally in his element.  
  
The anger and the grief that had been threatening to engulf her were losing their hold on her with every word out of Garrus’s mouth. She felt: relief, joy, luck. Even while absorbing the information Joker was telling her about the Normandy, Shepard was wondering how Garrus must have felt, seeing her on Omega after two years, if it was this intense for her after only two days.  
  
Desire. She felt so much desire, yanking the roots of the grief from the pit of her stomach, settling a little lower, blossoming. She wanted to get off this moon as quickly as possible, for more reasons than the reaper creatures swarming all around them. She felt like she wanted to drag him into the shuttle and back to the loft right then and there. She felt like she wouldn’t even have the discipline to wait until the elevator got to the loft, or, hell, until the shuttle got to the Normandy, like she’d just kiss the hell out of him right there in the middle of the shuttle and then —  
  
It would have to wait. But not long.  
  
Mostly, though — mostly, she felt relief. It washed over her like so much water from a cool, secret, hidden spring in the midst of rough terrain. Relief was cleansing her, giving her a new, smooth set to her shoulders, a new, determined grit to her jaw, a new, hopeful sense of possibility.  
  
"Coming, Garrus?" she asked, a lilting tease in her voice.  
  
When he checked his rifle and, equally as playfully, said, “are you kidding? I’m right behind you,” she broke into a grin.


End file.
